


All To Him I Freely Give

by ClutchHedonist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff and Smut, Other, Penis In Vagina Sex, Power Dynamics, Power Exchange, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 14:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20761931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClutchHedonist/pseuds/ClutchHedonist
Summary: Five times Crowley finds himself at Aziraphale's feet.





	All To Him I Freely Give

**Author's Note:**

> Is this just a shameless ploy for me to write some loving Ineffable Husbands power exchange, you ask? Yes, yes it absolutely is.

It’s wine, the first time.

Crowley suspects, as the pleasant hum of wine begins to unspool his languorous, sprawling angles, that this may be entirely his fault. A perfect 1811, Chateau D’Yquem. A comet vintage - the Great Comet, nonetheless. The idea that celestial phenomena coincide with equally phenomenal vintages has never failed to appeal to his lingering possessiveness of all things stellar, but it does suggest that he is at least partially responsible for the dangerous potency of the stuff. Regardless, the recent aversion of war merits a particularly spectacular reward.

It should be impossible to be  _ languorously _ angular, but Crowley has always given it a good go. He slumps, all elbows and knees and hips, onto the floor in front of the horrendous damask sofa. His back thuds up against it, and he tilts his head back onto one of the ancient cushions, just to the side of Aziraphale’s knee. Aziraphale, unthinking, shifts his wine glass into the other hand to thread a few fingers into his hair.

And there’s trouble, that.

Crowley freezes, brows knitting, “W’youdoing?”

“Hm?” 

Aziraphale is idly kneading, now, with the soft pads of his fingertips as he nurses his drink, and the string in Crowley’s stomach, the one that exists there solely for Aziraphale to inadvertently pluck with terribly candid innocence, goes taut. His cheek, traitorous, slowly lolls up against Aziraphale’s knee.

“Nothing.” He slurs, pressing his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose.

They sit in fond, dizzy silence for a few moments before Aziraphale gives a pleased sigh, “Oh, Crowley.” He says, “Really, well done.”

“Wha-?” Crowley tilts back to glance up at him as something in his chest stumbles like an ungainly fawn over the praise.

Aziraphale makes a sweeping gesture with his glass, out towards the room, towards the shop, towards the world, “All of- all of it.” Another exhalation, this one heavy with relief, “Thank goodness.”

“You’re soused.”

“I’m not.”

“Are ssso.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, “Be that as it may, I hardly need point out the hypocrisy of that statement.”

“My job, isn’t it? Gruesome hypocrisy?” Half of face is pressed into Aziraphale’s knee. He smells of delicate, yellowed paper, centuries-loved, preserved with careful hands. Crowley, unwound, wonders if the itch under his left ear might be the threat of scales just beneath the surface. 

“I’m not entirely certain that you have a job any longer, my dear.” Aziraphale muses, and then his lips purse, “It might be that neither of us do.”

“Mmm, useless, me.” Crowley agrees sleepily before he can bite back the words.

Aziraphale’s brows shoot upward, “My dear fellow,” He protests, “I have never heard such a pernicious lie.”

Crowley simply huffs himself into a pool of coils around Aziraphale’s feet.

***

The second time, there are too few chairs.

Newt and Anathema have just moved the last box into their cramped flat in Fitzrovia when Crowley and Aziraphale arrive. 

“Oh, but you mightn’t have troubled yourselves so!” Aziraphale says, “We would gladly have helped.”

“We’re just running a little late.” Anathema waves it off, pointedly doesn’t mention the carrying capacity of Dick Turpin, although she gives Newt a meaningful glance, “Sorry.”

“Do let us help you settle in.” Aziraphale offers.

Crowley doesn’t have time to protest before Aziraphale is plucking a box up from the floor and pressing it into his arms. They do it the old-fashioned way, the human way, with Aziraphale chattering joyously over each knick-knack. Within an hour, the essentials are unboxed, tucked away in cabinets or perched on shelves. Crowley spares a few minutes menacing an anemic potted sage into splendor in the bedroom before he rejoins the others in the kitchen.

The takeout Aziraphale has ordered has arrived already, sitting neatly beside the champagne bottle they’d brought to housewarm the couple. The table, however, remains unbuilt in its torn open box (something about the wrong size of spanner) with two chairs in listless orbit on either side.

“Do sit down, my dear, you’ve worked all day.” Aziraphale is encouraging Anathema.

“Don’t worry about it.” She motions for him to sit instead, presses her palms back into the counter before hitching herself up onto it with a small hop.

Newt and Crowley spend what feels like an eternity and is, in reality, just under four lengthy seconds, regarding one another over the second chair.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale scolds, and it’s all it takes to bring him down, sniffing into his lo mein, at his feet.

He’s leaning one shoulder against the edge of the chair about three bites - his fill, really, when it comes to lo mein - into it. Aziraphale shifts to make room for him as Crowley passes him up the still-warm oyster pail. His palm presses for a moment against the back of Crowley’s long fingers. Crowley swallows a breath and wriggles from beneath it. When he looks up, Anathema is watching him.

“Watered your plants.” He offers, dropping his still-tingling hand behind one of the chair legs, “Looked like they needed it.”

“...Thanks.” She says, but there’s a curious lilt to her voice.

Aziraphale, head tilted, glances between them, “...Is that some sort of slang?”

Newt blinks up from his spring roll, “Is it?”

“What? No.” Crowley says, “Why does it- what would it even be slang for?”

“Some sort of dance.” Aziraphale supplies, “Or a fetish, I suppose.”

“A  _ what? _ ” Crowley gapes.

“It’s almost always one of those, with slang, isn’t it?”

“Usually.” Anathema agrees, “Oh! It could be some kind of crime. A threat.”

Newt and Anathema tumble off together on a list of potential dangerous intrigues that could be described as ‘watering your plants’. This, while closer to the truth with regards to Crowley’s personal gardening style, gives his mind the little distance that it needs to become aware of his position. His arm is crooked behind one of Aziraphale’s calves, the edge of his thumb just grazing his heel. He swallows. Above him, Aziraphale’s face is nearly incandescent with affection as he looks between Newt and Anathema’s animated patter. One manicured hand comes down to rest on Crowley’s shoulder and gives a squeeze. Crowley’s lungs come to an immediate halt. He considers shoving his face into the underside of Aziraphale’s wrist.

Instead, he tilts his head back, mock-languid, and struggles to keep his tongue from going forked.

***

“Really, Crowley, you needn’t-” Aziraphale is protesting.

“Doesn’t look too bad.” Crowley tells him as he carefully rotates Aziraphale’s ankle in his hands.

Aziraphale glances to either side of the park bench he’s sitting on, cheeks pink, “It barely rolled at all.”

“Listen, it doesn’t take much, with bodies like this.” Crowley huffs, “All sorts of delicate ligaments and things, easy to muddle.”

“I’m an angel, I hardly need a physician.” Aziraphale says.

Crowley freezes as his mind trips over the absence of something. Something missing, something half-grasped in a distant place, hazy. He’s used to it by now, shoves the feeling away almost as quickly as it came, “Still need two legs.”

Aziraphale’s brows knit, “Crowley…?”

“What is it, angel?”

One soft hand tilts his face up. At once, Crowley’s whirling, suddenly and deeply aware that his hands are still holding the smooth skin of Aziraphale’s ankle. That his cheek is just beside his knee. 

“Is everything all right?” Aziraphale asks.

“‘Course it is, why wouldn’t it be?” Crowley supplies immediately. 

“You looked-”

“S’nothing.” 

Aziraphale is watching him, lips pursed. His fingertips still rest against the edge of his jaw. Crowley leans minutely towards his sunglasses, left to rest on the bench as he’d examined Aziraphale’s twisted ankle, but to his surprise, Aziraphale holds fast. Crowley nearly whimpers at the sensation. 

“Are you quite sure?” Aziraphale questions.

“Leggo.” Crowley does his best to keep his voice from breaking. He very nearly manages it. 

Aziraphale sighs and obeys. Crowley snatches his glasses up, then brushes off his knees as he stumbles to his feet.

***

Aziraphale isn’t meant to be here. Isn’t meant to see him like this. Crowley’s body is still frozen, curled on the floor, where he’s been for a handful of days, tangled in a cacophony of blankets.

“A-Aziraphale-” He stammers.

Aziraphale hesitates on the threshold to the bedroom. Crowley sees his hands lift briefly towards him, and then fall back to their place at his sides. Then, he steps inside, moves towards him, and Crowley is gazing up at him from just beside his brown oxfords.

“Whatever is the matter, my dear?” 

“Nothing.” Crowley drawls.

“You haven’t called in nearly a week.” Aziraphale tells him.

“Says the angel who can’t be bothered to own a cell phone.” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale huffs, “I’ve been in the shop! I needn’t have had one to have heard from you. I tried calling.”

“Happens sometimes.” Crowley grumbles, “Snake and all that. Slow down in winter.”

“It’s not even November.” Aziraphale counters.

“Cold enough.”

“I thought-” Aziraphale’s voice hitches.

The sound of it sets something clawing in Crowley’s gut. He sits up slowly, the blankets pooling around his elbows, “Aziraphale…?”

Aziraphale’s hands curl into fists, “I thought perhaps they’d come back.” He chokes out. 

Crowley’s eyes widen, “No, no no no. Oh, angel-”

And then Aziraphale is on one knee beside him, tugging him into his arms. Crowley stutters a gasp before carefully winding his own around him in return. Aziraphale clings to him. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” He breathes against his temple, “I didn’t- Ah, fuck, Aziraphale, I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale’s fingers tangle in his hair, pull him closer, and then he’s pressing his lips to his forehead over and over, “Don’t you ever frighten me like that again. I shan’t have it.” He scolds between kisses. 

Flushing scarlet, Crowley balls his fists in the blanket, “I- I-”

“Oh, Crowley, what if I’d never-” Aziraphale lets out a shaky breath against his hairline, “What if I’d never gotten to tell you?”

Something bright and feeble in Crowley’s chest begins to push through decades of careful restraint, “Tell me what?”

Aziraphale swallows and presses his forehead against his. His hands drop to cup Crowley’s cheeks, “How very much I love you, dear boy.”

***

Crowley can number every one of them in his mind, all of the times he’s found himself here, every blessed coincidence that has brought him here before. The quiet, stolen delight of it. But now,  _ now- _

One of his arms is wrapped around Aziraphale’s calf, his cheekbone pressed to his knee. He can hear the whisper and sigh of pages turning above him on the desk. One of Aziraphale’s hands drops into his hair, and Crowley swears he can feel his spine dissolve. 

“Angel.” He breathes. 

“Ah ah ah.” Aziraphale chides, “Not before seven.”

Crowley hums with disappointment and turns his face to nose at the side of Aziraphale’s thigh. 

“Wicked thing.” Aziraphale says fondly, and then his fingers are tugging at Crowley’s hair, “Behave.”

Crowley swallows a groan and melts back to the floor. He’d chosen the shape of this particular Effort in an attempt to better withstand this waiting game that Aziraphale so loves to play, but now his bare inner thighs are soaked slick, and the way that they slide against one another is torture in its own right. 

“Time s’it?” He manages.

Aziraphale produces his pocket watch, “Six eighteen.” He tells him.

“Oh, Satan.” Crowley whines. He curls on the floor, the wood somehow cooler against flesh without scales, and presses his lips despairingly to Aziraphale’s ankle bone.

“What did I say?” Aziraphale scolds without looking.

“M’being bad.” Crowley slurs, drunk on the weight of Aziraphale’s orders, “Probably going to have to be punished.”

“You’re not going to like the consequences, you know.” Aziraphale says, then turns another page.

“Might.” Crowley replies and gives a nibble.

One of Aziraphale’s hands drifts down towards him, and Crowley leans up hopefully. Then, sifting into the space between realities, Aziraphale finds and perfectly pinches a single primary covert between two fingertips. 

“ _ Fuck! _ ” Crowley strangles. He plunges back to the floor, cunt convulsing around nothing but his own desperation.

“I did warn you.” Aziraphale notes. 

Crowley scrabbles for purchase, seizes the leg of Aziraphale’s chair to keep himself from shoving a hand between his own legs. His chest heaves against the floor.

“Sit politely.” Aziraphale commands him.

Panting, Crowley pushes himself up onto his knees. His pinned wing unfurls in Aziraphale’s delicate grip. As he curls forward to press his forehead against the floor, he hears him give a soothing hum. 

“There we are.” Aziraphale murmurs. His fingertips release the trapped feather only long enough to comb once through the primaries. 

Crowley seizes beneath him, “Angel,  _ angel, _ ” He begs as both wings shudder into the material plane, “S’too good. Fuck, have mercy.”

“You know precisely what to say if you wish for me to have mercy on you.” Aziraphale tuts, “Do you not?”

Crowley nods helplessly. Aziraphale glances down at him over his spectacles, and then, finding him silent, rakes his fingers through his feathers once more. Crowley curses and squeezes his thighs against one another.

“Only forty more minutes, dear boy.” Aziraphale says.

Beside him on the floor, the curls of his hair -longer, now, in the time since the averted Apocalypse- have started to go gold-brown in his peripheral vision. Crowley gives a ragged sigh and abdicates responsibility for his eyes entirely. 

A single manicured nail grazes the bend of his wing, “Still keen on being punished?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley stifles a groan into his own shoulder. His teeth are still buried in it as he gives a minute shake of his head.

“There’s a good boy.” Aziraphale hums. 

Crowley whimpers.

He’s writhing in earnest by the time the antique clock chimes. His nails have dug little crescents into his palms, and he’s so wet that the parting of his thighs as he sits back makes a sound like the splitting of a peach. He shudders at the sensation.

“A-Aziraphale-” He croaks.

One soft hand cups his jaw, and Aziraphale smiles down at him, “I know, my darling. I know.” He traces the curve of his lower lip with the pad of his thumb. Crowley pulls the digit into his mouth eagerly, and Aziraphale chortles as it brushes up against his pronounced canines.

“Can’t help it.” Crowley moans around his thumb, “Need you, angel.”

“Show me.” Aziraphale says, and pushes his chair back a hint.

Crowley rises from the floor, uneven, knees singing in protest. Pink down to his chest, he leans back against the desk and lets his legs part.

“How marvelous.” Aziraphale sighs. Crowley bites his lip as Aziraphale runs two fingers down the slick center of him. When they find his entrance, it’s all he can do to keep from pitching his hips.

“Please,  _ please. _ ” He urges.

“Come here, my darling.” Aziraphale says as he begins to undo his flies.

Crowley tumbles with relief into his lap. His lips search for anywhere they can find skin, Aziraphale’s temples, his brow, beneath his ear. He sighs his name like a prayer against him as Aziraphale frees his cock from his trousers.

“Oh, Satan,  _ yes. _ ” Crowley groans at the sight of him.

“Is this what you need, my love?” Aziraphale runs his fingertips along his cheekbone.

Crowley nods wordlessly, and shakes with anticipation as Aziraphale takes him by the hips. When he finally -  _ finally _ \- pushes up into him, the extension of Crowley’s wings flings several books from the desk.

“ _ Fuck! _ ” He’s sobbing with pleasure, clinging to Aziraphale’s shoulders and snapping his hips down against him.

As slick as he is, there’s little difficulty in finding a pleasant rhythm. Aziraphale rises to meet his efforts, and Crowley keens.

“C-Can’t...can’t believe y-you made me wait ssso bloody long.” He pants. 

“Was it?” Aziraphale purrs and slides a hand up the inside of one long thigh.

“An eternity.” Crowley bites out, and then his voice drops down his throat as the pad of Aziraphale’s thumb grazes his clit, “M-More,” He chokes, “More,  _ more. _ ” 

Dipping his thumb briefly to where they’re joined, Aziraphale gathers enough slick to rub more substantially. Crowley’s forehead drops to his shoulder, and he rides down into his touch with desperate hunger. 

“G-Going to-” He warns him.

“Certainly not for the last time this evening.” Aziraphale replies.

Crowley, breathless, throws his head back and clenches down around him. When Aziraphale fills him in return, the heat of it is enough to leave him delirious. Crowley pitches through surge after surge of his own pleasure, soaks the front of Aziraphale’s trousers, wails curses and adulation in Adamic. 

He can’t count the number of times he howls his name before they plummet, loose-limbed, into bed hours - days?- later. Aziraphale’s fingers are in his hair, lips against his temple, and Crowley squirms to fill any space between them with his body, trembling.

“What is it, darling? What do you need?” Aziraphale asks softly.

“You.” Crowley pants, shaky hands reaching up to cup Aziraphale’s face, “Just you.”

Aziraphale smiles, “Oh, my dear boy. Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me at clutchhedonist.tumblr.com for more similar filth, y'all.


End file.
